Rise and Shine, Benedict Stone

by Phaedra Patrick

  “You’ll be fine. If you’re not, I can always carry you over my shoulder.”

  “Perhaps if you have a small crane...”

  “I’m stronger than I look.” She rolled up her sleeve and flexed her arm. They both stared at the slight bump that appeared above her elbow. “Pure muscle,” she laughed.

  “I believe you now.”

  “By the way, I’m Estelle.”

  “And I’m Benedict.”

  When they eventually climbed up and reached Dinosaur Ridge, the rest of the group sat on the stegosaurus scales, looking smug and eating their sandwiches. “I have a joke,” Estelle said as she rubbed her knees. “It’s completely rubbish. Do you want to hear it?”

  “Go on...”

  “Why are there no tablets in the jungle?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Because the parrots eat ’em all. Get it? Paracetamol.”

  “That’s funny,” Benedict said, even though it wasn’t.

  “You tell me one.”

  Benedict could only think of one that he’d overheard a couple of schoolboys sharing outside his shop. He regretted it as soon as he started to tell it. “How do you get a fat guy into bed?” he asked.

  Estelle frowned. “I have no idea.”

  “A piece of cake.”

  She snorted and then laughed out loud. Her headband slipped off the top of her ears. “I may bear that in mind,” she said.

  Throughout the rest of the walk, Benedict replayed his joke over and over in his head. It was so lame.

  They agreed that a pint of cider in the Pig and Whistle would help to ease their aching thighs, and they talked so much that their cheese-sandwich tea led into a pub quiz in the evening. They came second and, when Benedict walked Estelle home, they celebrated by kissing on the canal towpath in the moonlight.

  Their dates from then on revolved around food—a new tearoom that Estelle had read about, over in York, or a new sandwich on the menu at Crags and Cakes. Except, whereas Estelle was sensible, choosing small dishes, salads, skipping a dessert, Benedict didn’t have the willpower. He liked large meals and full oval plates, finding the heavy feeling in his stomach comforting. He couldn’t resist a sticky toffee pudding, especially with custard.

  They married almost two years later in the small church in Applethorpe, and began to try for a baby on their honeymoon in Santorini.

  “I’d love to have two kids standing on my knee under the gem tree,” Benedict said as the moon shone through the window, making the white bedsheets shine silver. “Like Charlie and I did with our mum and dad.”

  Estelle smiled. “Who knows...in nine months’ time...”

  “We should stock up on nappies.”

  However, the months rolled by and no double blue lines appeared on the pregnancy kits that Estelle bought each month, just in case.

  For the first couple of years, it didn’t concern them; they were having fun trying. But slowly, increasingly, it mattered.

  “Never mind.” They smiled at each other. “Next month, definitely.”

  But still nothing happened.

  They started to make love to a schedule, noting the days when Estelle was supposed to be most fertile.

  Doctors’ appointments and hospital appointments began to fill up their calendar. Benedict felt grubby as he sat in a small cubicle with a porno mag in one hand and a plastic cup in the other. But this was nothing compared to the invasive tests that Estelle underwent. She had sample tests and scans and blood tests, a hysteroscopy and a laparoscopy. Benedict stood and watched her disappear into rooms and behind curtains, and coming around, groggily, from her operations.

  And the results were always the same. Nothing. Unexplained infertility.

  Estelle started to look at the pregnancy tests in private, with the bathroom door locked. When she came out she was quiet and her cheeks were streaked with tears.

  They still went out for walks, their pub lunches together, on holiday, to gigs over in Applethorpe. Benedict worked in the jewelry shop and Estelle started to paint.

  They went through three rounds of IVF, which failed. The process gave Estelle excruciating headaches and made her feel lethargic, but she was determined to try again. Benedict sold his Ford Focus to pay for another go, but that didn’t work, either. There was nothing in the bank and the only thing left to sell was the house. They put it on the market for a year but prospective buyers deemed it old-fashioned, too much work to do.

  Benedict and Estelle started to count the years, not celebrating the anniversary of when they met or married, but in terms of how long they’d been trying for children. “It’s been three years, since we first started... It’s been five years now. I can’t believe it’s coming up to eight.”

  Until they both, sadly, agreed that it wasn’t ever likely to happen.

  There were strangers missing in their relationship who had never been real. They had invented ghosts and pinned their hopes and futures to them. Benedict and Estelle had fallen in love with children who would never be.

  Benedict had thought only of being a father, and without that dream, he felt lost, like he was only a husk of a man. What was his identity now? Being a jeweler or husband wasn’t enough. He needed to be a parent.

  A silence settled in the Stone household, like a fine layer of dust, coating everything.

  When she was made redundant from the accounts department at Meadow Interiors, Estelle set up their spare bedroom as a studio. As her confidence grew, she started to walk on the moors on her own, with her sketchbook and paints. She traveled to York to buy new brushes and only told Benedict when she got home. She retreated to her studio for hours at a time.

  Last Christmas, Benedict looked out of the dining room window at the gem tree. It was coated in snow, and children were laughing in the street, building a snowman. He swallowed and held his back straight. A deep longing welled inside him. “I think it’s time that we thought about adoption,” he said. “There’ll be a child who needs us, out there somewhere.”

  Estelle stood beside him. She reached up and leaned on his shoulder, as she had done the first time they met. She didn’t speak for a long time. “I’ve thought about it,” she said in a quiet voice. “This isn’t about raising any child. It’s about us having our own.”

  “It would be ours. Not biologically, but we have so much love to give.”

  Estelle shook her head. “I don’t want to adopt.”

  “Why not?” Having a family was all they had talked and dreamed of. How could they even contemplate a future without it?

  “It would be a stranger’s child. Not really ours.”

  “I looked after Charlie when my parents died...” He tried to wrap his arms around her but she squirmed away.

  “You had no choice. And your brother broke your heart...” Her words trailed off.

  Benedict stared out of the window. “That’s different.” He’d never told his wife what happened between him and Charlie all those years ago. Or why his brother left. He wanted a family with Estelle, and he wouldn’t mess up this time. “This isn’t about Charlie. This is about us,” he said, though he felt desperation tug inside him. “Please let’s consider adoption.”

  “I have done, Benedict, but I feel that this isn’t about you and me, and our family, any longer. It’s about you wanting a child. Any child.”

  “It’s not like that...”

  “It feels that way. We need to accept that we’re not going to be parents, and to plan a future for just the two of us.”

  “But I can’t...we can’t...”

  “We’ve got to learn how to.” Estelle hung her head.

  In the darkness, Benedict stared out at the snowy gem tree. It looked like its legacy, of the Stone children hanging gemstones into it, was about to end. Unless he could persu
ade Estelle otherwise.

  * * *

  After thinking about his wife, Benedict wanted to be alone for a while. When he and Gemma reached Stone Jewelry, he took all the money out of his pockets and told her to open her hands.

  “What for?” she asked.

  “If your purse is missing, you’ll need some cash. You haven’t brought many things with you.”

  “I don’t need them.”

  “Well, go to the Deserted Dogs charity shop anyway to see if there’s anything you like. They raise money to help unwanted dogs in the area. It’s opposite the community center. Look out for a large redbrick building with a big Closed. Keep Out sign on the door.”

  “Why keep out?”

  “The roof is caving in and the council don’t have the funds to pay for a new one. It’s a shame because it was a sort of a village hub for things like yoga and baby groups.”

  “That’s real sad. What are you going to do?”

  “I’ll go into the shop, to do a few jobs. You can buy us some nice lunch, too.” His stomach gurgled at the thought of a chunky chocolate cupcake. “Now, put the money in your pocket so you don’t lose it...” He paused, realizing this was something he used to say to Charlie.

  “Don’t forget that I traveled from America. On my own.” Gemma gave a withering sigh. “I am capable.” She stared around herself hesitantly.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. It’s a new place. I don’t know anywhere yet.”

  “It’s a very small village.” Suspicion edged into Benedict’s voice. “I thought you went to Paris...on your own.”

  “Yeah, well...” Gemma glared at him and scrunched up the money in her fist. “Paris had a big tower as a landmark.” She looked down the street again. “You go and do your own thing, Uncle Ben. And I’ll go and do mine.”

  5.

  AMAZONITE

  integrity, calming, aligning

  THE SHOP DOOR scraped against a wodge of leaflets on the doormat. Picking them up, Benedict saw they were all the same. Four grainy faces glared back at him. Rock band Restore the Hope was playing a warm-up gig in Applethorpe before their UK tour. Benedict cursed and folded the leaflets in half.

  Another had drifted farther into the shop, and he stooped down, immediately recognizing one of Estelle’s paintings of the moors. He read the white words.

  Lawrence Donnington

  presents a preview of

  ‘MOORLAND ESCAPE’

  by

  Estelle Stone

  at Purple Heather Gallery, Noon Sun Village

  6:30–8:30 p.m.

  28 October

  Benedict’s heart dipped. He didn’t know about this. Why hadn’t she told him about her exhibition? Was Estelle embarrassed by him?

  Purple Heather used to be a small tearoom, but local entrepreneur Donnington had renovated it and turned it into an art gallery to display the work of Yorkshire artists.

  Benedict had passed by and it was very modern, with white walls and polished floorboards. He spied Lawrence himself standing in the middle of the gallery and waving his arms around as if conducting an orchestra. He dressed like a French mime artist, with slim hips in tight black trousers, and a Breton striped top.

  The women of Noon Sun seemed to like him, though. Benedict once overheard a small group in the Pig and Whistle, gushing about him and fanning their flushed faces with the laminated menus.

  From the shop counter, Lord Puss let out a short meow that sounded more like a bark, and his yellow eyes were like slits. From hearing the noise at least ten times a day, Benedict knew that His Royal Highness wanted food. “Now I have a cat and a teenager to feed,” he said with a sigh. “You’ll have to wait a bit longer, Lord Puss. A bit of patience will do you good.”

  He caught a glimpse of Estelle’s purple anorak hanging in the store cupboard and he reached out to touch the vivid fabric. He allowed himself a moment to imagine his wife wearing it. Then he withdrew his hand and furled it into a fist. What was he going to do to get her back? He wasn’t particularly handsome, and he knew he ate too much. He might mention family too often, but he loved her with all his heart. He just didn’t know how to express it.

  He opened the back door and took a food sachet from his pocket. He squeezed it into the cat’s bowl and threw the leaflets for the rock band in the bin. “Here, puss, puss,” he said wearily.

  Lord Puss jumped off the counter and walked as slowly as he could out into the yard. He barely sniffed his food bowl, then sat down. A dapple of sunshine illuminated the paving stones with a circle of light so it looked like he was under a spotlight, waiting for applause. He turned his face away from Benedict as if he had smelled something bad.

  “Damn cat.”

  Back inside, Benedict carried his laptop through to the workshop and flipped it open. After waiting ages for it to fire up, he was glad that Noon Sun had internet connection today. The phone and broadband in the village only worked intermittently because the surrounding hills blocked the signal.

  Benedict had never made a proper effort to track down his brother before, for fear of what might happen. But this time, he Googled Charlie Stone and Charles Stone. He chewed his bottom lip as half a million results showed up.

  Part of him wanted his brother’s face to appear on the computer screen, but another part wanted it to remain hidden so Benedict wouldn’t experience the awful pangs of shame that kept him awake at night.

  His fingers shook a little as he tried again, this time typing in Charlie and Amelia Stone and then Gemma Stone. But there were still thousands of results.

  It looked like Gemma’s suggestion of sending a letter might be his only way of making contact with Charlie after all.

  Next, Benedict phoned the airport and spoke to a young man who had a Northern Irish accent and who spoke at breakneck speed. He informed Benedict that there was no record of a purse with a passport inside it being handed in. He took Benedict’s name and number and said that he’d call if anything turned up. “Don’t count on it, though,” he added. “Have a nice day.”

  Benedict lowered himself into his chair. Opening his drawer, he found half a packet of Polo mints pushed into the corner. He munched them one after another then crumpled the foil into a ball, tossed it into the bin and gave himself a small cheer. He opened another drawer and took out the anniversary necklace. Slinking it over the back of his hand and touching its tiny links, he hoped that Estelle would realize how much time and love he’d poured into it.

  When his phone vibrated in his pocket, Benedict’s heart leaped. A text from his wife? Finally.

  How R U, Benedicto? Cecil asked.

  Benedict sighed. I should be asking you that! How did the op go?

  Okay but a few complications. Visiting time is 6:00 till 7:30.

  I’ll be there tomorrow.

  Any news on Estelle?

  Benedict hesitated. Not yet, he texted. He couldn’t think of how to tell Cecil, in a few words, about Gemma’s arrival.

  Cecil replied, . How is Lord Puss?

  He misses you.

  Me, too. Send my .

  Benedict couldn’t think of anything worse than whispering gooey sweet nothings to the fluffy beast. I will do. Now rest up. All is great here.

  , said Cecil.

  While Benedict waited for Gemma, no customers came into the shop. He thought that he’d relish the quietness away from her, but when he picked up a length of gold wire to make more links, he squashed each one.

  As he slid another batch of rejected links from his palm into the teacup, the electronic beep-bop in the showroom sounded. Gemma returning early, he pressed his lips tight.

  “Hello,” he called out and walked into the showroom. And then his heart and time seemed to come to a standstill.

  H
is wife stood in the middle of the shop.

  “Estelle?” His word sounded raspy.

  “Hello, Benedict,” she said.

  He used to greet her with a big hug and a kiss on the cheek and he wanted to do that now. They’d shared twelve years of love and laughter, but they stood facing each other as if there was a thick pane of glass between them.

  His wife used her arms and hands to express herself—a reassuring pat to his shoulder, a hug hello, a rub to his forearm as she spoke. This woman looked like Estelle and sounded like her, but she didn’t move like his wife. It was like a clone had taken over Estelle’s body but hadn’t downloaded her personality.

  He felt as if his limbs were held together by glue that was becoming unstuck. If he moved, then he might fall apart. “Estelle,” he repeated. Words wafted around in his head and he couldn’t pin them down to say them to her. If she came home, he would do whatever he needed to to make things right. He didn’t want to beg but, if that’s what it took, he would do it.

  Estelle touched her neck and he saw that she was wearing a bright resin necklace that looked like a firework exploding from beneath her collar. She followed his eyes. “Oh, this? Friends bought it for me to celebrate my exhibition at Purple Heather.”

  “It’s very bold...”

  “It’s nice to have a change sometimes.”

  Benedict cleared his throat. “Your exhibition looks very exciting. Congratulations. I found a leaflet on my doormat...”

  Her brow furrowed in the middle. “Sorry. I thought that you knew about it...”

  “No.” He tried to say it without emotion but felt a tremble in his voice.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said again. “Things have been so crazy, recently. I hope that you’ll come along.”

  Benedict wanted to attend, but what part would he play? He wasn’t sure if Estelle was inching him out of her life. He thought of Cecil’s words about getting on his proverbial medieval horse, to joust for her. But what could he do?

  He felt like he was sitting on the beach when a huge wave crashed, filling his nose and mouth with salt water. He might try to flail around and scramble away, but he was drowning. How had they come to this? It had happened so gradually—the niggles, the arguments, the silences had all reached a crescendo of awfulness, until his wife had felt the only option was to move away from him.